


for all the arrows you threw.

by allisonogitsune



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allisaac, Allison Argent & Isaac Lahey - Freeform, Allison Argent & Lydia Martin Friendship, Allison Argent & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Allison Argent/Isaac Lahey - Freeform, Allydia - Freeform, Gen, Isaac Feels, Lysaac, Multi, POV Lydia, POV Lydia Martin, RIP Allison Argent, Teen Wolf, scott McCall - Freeform, stiles stilinski - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 13:50:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1512842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allisonogitsune/pseuds/allisonogitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>This is for all the arrows you threw and all the people they touched.</i>
</p><p><b>Lydia Martin post Allison's death and her way of seeing how everyone deals with it.</b> </p><p>[Scott McCall, Stiles Stilinski, Isaac Lahey.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	for all the arrows you threw.

3 weeks.

3 weeks since Allison died.

Sometimes people cringe when I say that; they stare at me like they wonder how I have got the audacity to roll it off my tongue . “Passed away” is too gentle for the way she was gnawed on, it’s too soft for the way she was crushed like cherries in the jaw of fate. I like “died”; it’s ruthless, it’s ground shaking – like her death. It changes you, it changes every social norm you were taught. For example, I have come to notice that, with death, things that were of vital importance turn trivial. The how’s and the where’s don’t really matter if you can’t get past the when. It’s been 3 weeks, and my mother told me mighty time heals all, but how can a wound heal if it’s being clawed at constantly?

There are clothes of her, stuffed with my own. I can’t remember if I borrowed them or if she forgot them here – I know it does not really matter, but trivial things like this keep me sane. A black leather jacket hangs in my closet and it stands out, it does not belong, like flip flops in a thunderstorm. I can’t get rid of it. If I dare touch it, it will burn my fingers and burn my throat. There’s a hallow in my chest that reminds me of her and I can’t tell if it’s the spot that would warm up when she spoke my name or the hole the Oni pierced through her fragile chest. Sometimes I think I can hear her hair shuffle. Raindrops on the window sill, it’s been raining a lot for California these past 3 weeks, they sound like her footsteps and sometimes the way she tapped her fingers against her desk when she was bored in class. When I walk by the woods and stand where I used to watch her practice, I try to feel her presence. It’s my sick little routine. I run up the hills till my legs give up on me, I ball my fists, wail and I fall to my knees but the closest I get to her is when the wind comes, it shuffles the leaves, and a thousand times they whisper her name. 

Scott asked me if Allison ever haunts me. I told him yes, but now that I’ve thought about it countless hours – she does not, Allison is too proud to haunt any of us. She resonates around and in me.

He does not really smile anymore. Scott, I mean. Of course, he technically does, the seventh cranial nerve sends the right signals and the perfect combination of the 43 muscles in his face crease and curl to form a “smile”, but his eyes are still mourning. He really cares about Kira, I can hear it in the soft tone he talks to her in, but he’s mourning his first love, the first girl he gave his all to, he needs time. He tries to be strong, but he lets it crack. It seeps out his lips and his eyes and pours into me when he does not notice.  
Stiles can’t look at me in the face because he thinks it’s his fault. He can’t be grateful he’s alive, he can’t cherish the new dawns he wakes up to and he does not laugh because he does not think he deserves it. He was an instrument in the murder of his friend, she was taken too soon and it left scars on him. He tries to heal them with pills, he’s doubled up the doses. When he looks at me, he never says it, but I can hear him scream, _it should have been me, it should have been me. Do you forgive me?_

I don’t know if I do.

Isaac found me in the woods once, curled up against the soil, trembling and uttering her name. I never heard him coming and only felt his presence when two strong hands gripped my arms gently, pulling me up. Allison would say it was weak, not that it matters anymore, that I needed someone to lift me onto my feet and mumble the sweet lie, _everything’s going to be okay_. He did not mean it. It left a sticky taste in his mouth and it made him dizzy the way cough syrup does, but neither of us said anything about it. I wiped the dust off my legs and he watched me tentatively. I wanted to explain, _I’m not crazy. I just miss her,_ but when I parted my lips and tried to form words, he just nodded. Two ice blue glints and a clenched jaw. I did not question that he started walking and expected me to follow him, I could trust him if Allison could. So I let him lead the way, till white letters on a dark green sign that read **BEACON HILLS CEMETERY**. My feet came to an abrupt stop like they had a mind on their own, and he looked back to see if I was okay. I breathed, my feet heavy like they were concrete, but I forced myself to move - _left,_ right, _left,_ right, _left,_ right - till we reached her grave. 

I was glad he decided to sit down, because I was not sure how long my legs could hold me. We must have looked weird, I thought, two people sitting in front of a grave aimlessly, waiting for something, or someone, but I’m not exactly unfamiliar with being the odd one out of the bunch. **ALLISON ARGENT** , I read over and over again. **ALLISON ARGENT.** How could it feel so unfamiliar when I have chimed it between heartfelt laughs a million times? Like a language I did not know. So I read, like if I read it a certain amount, if I repeated it enough times, it would make things better and bring her back.

“Remember when I asked you out?”

I turned to him, his legs were pulled up and his elbows rested on a single knee each. I tried to remember and he glanced at me, but his head shot back quickly to the tombstone. He could not peer his eyes off it.

“First day of freshman year. You told me to come back when my bike had an engine instead of a chain,” he muttered, his jaw tightening for a second before the corner of his lip curled into a small smile. He knew it was not the time to smile, but he could not suppress it. He smiled like he knew a joke nobody else knew, he smiled like only a guy that has been spat in the face by fate can. I vaguely remembered a boy with blonde curls and an Ed Hardy sweatshirt mumbling something about going to the movies.

“Do you?” he repeated, and this time he turned and looked at me in anticipation. The smile long gone. 

“Barely,” I answered honestly. 

“I’m sorry I tried to kill you,” he blurted out, he looked me dead in the eyes. This time, it was my turn to glance with a shrug, my lips curling into a forgiving line. It did not matter. The problems we had then felt like Christmas compared to what we had gone through the past couple of weeks. Isaac swallowed, he looked down at his hands. I wondered if I had upset him but I realized it was not about me. His lumped body sat on Californian ground but his mind was somewhere far away. His eyes moved over every inch of his palms like he was searching for something he had lost; he had forgotten the punchline to the joke. It was not funny anymore. He _needed_ her back.

“I’m leaving for France, with Chris.” He was not sure if I cared but he needed to say it anyway. He did not look up. “I don’t think I’m coming back.” 

And so we sat in silence; Isaac, I and the tombstone where Allison should have been. I knew he had nothing to stay in Beacon Hills for so I didn’t protest. When I looked at him, I didn’t see the little freshman with the jittery hands who asked me out, but the face of a man crippled with pain. He was angry at her, – I saw it in the way he glared at her tombstone that day, probably still is. Isaac is angry at Allison for a lot of things, I think, but more than anything, he’s angry because Isaac loved her and she died protecting him. Isaac knows, the value he gives to his own life – or doesn’t, in his case – isn’t only about him anymore, but about a soft hearted, tough girl who gave her life by the bow. That’s why he had to leave. He’s grateful. He can’t waste his life away facing death every other week. Before we leave, his hands are balled up into fists, but I know this time it’s not anger, it’s just that he misses holding her hand.

Isaac left, and I know he’s not coming back.

I think it’s funny that Allison was right, even when the matter of subject was her own death and she couldn’t guess what was coming when she said it. We _are_ just teenagers and we can’t handle this, and we are crushed under the truth: that her bloodless, cold body is decomposing 6 feet under the ground and we are left to pick up the pieces.

Time doesn’t heal all and death doesn’t bring people together. It tears you apart, corrodes through your soul, leaves you to wither and leaves you to die.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, comment and kudos if you liked it!


End file.
